


Heaven Can't Help Me Now

by plinys



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Dancing, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 05:04:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2569190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plinys/pseuds/plinys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Certainly, he thought about science and engineering and how he could blow up the world with the ideas trapped in the back of his mind, but it was the little things, such as whether calling her pal in front of their coworkers was appropriate or what nightclubs made her think of super soldiers flying suicide missions, that he often forgot about.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heaven Can't Help Me Now

**Author's Note:**

> Filling two prompts at once here: 
> 
> for roboticonography who asked for: "Howard takes Peggy to a nightclub. It could be the Stork Club, or it could be some less somber venue/occasion."
> 
> and for angelwingsandantlers who asked for: "Howard taking Peggy dancing after Steve 'dies' to cheer her up. She ends up crying and he comforts her."

Peggy knows he didn’t pick the place on purpose, probably didn’t even think about it- simply because Howard doesn’t think about things like this.

Certainly, he thought about science and engineering and how he could blow up the world with the ideas trapped in the back of his mind, but it was the little things, such as whether calling her _pal_ in front of their coworkers was appropriate or what nightclubs made her think of super soldiers flying suicide missions, that he often forgot about.

She reminds herself that he never listened to the audio of Steve’s crash, whether out of respect of her or his own personal pain, so he has no way of knowing the significant of the club when he leads her inside. His arm is slipped through hers in a way that might have looked natural to other people, but was a bit too stiff and awkward and completely _Howard_. At least his grin was authentic, none of the showman style there, instead there’s a natural upward tilt that some other girl would probably have found charming had they been in her place.

And she might have once, in another life, had things been different, had the war not turn her life so completely upside down.

Still she smiles, tries not to think about memories tied to places she’d never actually gone to before, she makes polite conversation, saying things like, “yes it is lovely tonight,” and “we should do this more often,” and her lipstick stains the lip of her glass red, but she drinks the whiskey as quickly as she can wishing that it was stronger.

If he notices anything off about her tone he doesn’t say anything, going on and on about some project of his that he stresses is, “top secret” and “highly classified” before telling her every single detail because somehow even the threat of being accused of high treason can’t keep him from telling her everything he knows.

“We should dance,” he says, because he sees no reason for them not to, everybody else is dancing, it’s what people do at nightclubs.

Perhaps she’s a glutton for punishment, or has no sensible bone in her body, because she nods her head like it’s a grand idea, like there’s nothing wrong with the plan and says, “yes, let’s,” before letting him take her hand, treating her like a princess rather than a spy, and leading her out onto the dance floor.

It’s not as if they haven’t done this before.

Though the last few times they had been dancing, he had made an act of whispering in her ear before telling her secrets or missions, and she had replied in a similar manner.

This time was different.

They was not mission, no problem to be solved, nobody that she needed to shoot in the night, no story that he needed to use his new found wealth to pay off the press from talking about- they were just two people dancing at a nightclub.

She hadn’t even noticed that she had started to cry until the hand that had been resting at her hip lifted up to brush against her cheek, “you alright, pal?”

 She’s been saying _yes_ to that question for so long, that it takes a lot out of her to finally admit, “no.”

It’s been over a year since the war ended, but sometimes it still feels like yesterday.

Some nights she wakes up unable to breath, thinking for a second that she was still over there, the pain still fresh that she couldn’t believe the time had passed.

This is one of those times.

Leaving the dance floor in the middle of the song would be highly improper, but she can’t very well stand there and start crying, nor can she seem to do anything to squash the awful feelings that are suddenly coming up.

The tightness in her chest refuses to dispel not matter how much she tries to push it down and wills it to leave her alone, as she’s been able to do every other time before this.

Howard seems to sense as much.

Suddenly the one person that she knows to be strongly opposed to personal contact pulls her toward him of how own volition and not out of politeness of circumstances. Certainly their position now is the opposite of polite, standing closer than what would be considered proper among two people that were nothing more than friends or in a public context (not that anybody would call _him_ out on it). He does so in a way that she could now lean her head against his shoulder if she wanted to, and hide the sad look on her face from the rest of the club goers.

“I’ve got you,” he says, when she does eventually lean in towards him, her breath catching her in her throat as she tries to keep the tears in without complete success, the hands that had gone from her hip to her cheek now resting on the small of her back making small comforting circles against her, “Peggy, I’ve got you.”

And that’s how she ends up crying in a nightclub, wishing that there was a different set of arms holding her tight, that’s she was living another life, where nobody had crashed a plane into the artic after making promises to take her to this very same club.

By the time the song has ended and they’ve stepped politely apart to applaud the band her cheeks are dry, and they will remain that night, but there is a spot on Howard’s suit that is a bit darker than the rest of it.

When they slip back to their seats and she says, “is there someplace else we can go.”

He doesn’t even try to dissuade her, just waves his hand like this is an ordinary occurrence, to summon a waiter over to them and says, “check please.”

 


End file.
